


Vexing the Vexation

by iamsolarflare, ThaneZain



Series: it's a Fallen London/Minecraft Youtube au [14]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, Hermitcraft RPF, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Tag wranglers stop tagging Hermitcraft as RPF challenge, Temporary Character Death, anyway on to the actual tags:, because Silverer is dumb and also Ed is fingerkings aligned so, because no. Stop It, ed's still called a Glassman even though they're now called Silverers, obligatory tag to complain about ao3 using irl people names on the hermit tags, revolutionaries are okay sometimes and also working for the masters sucks, this is not rpf nor should you consider it such
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25638625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamsolarflare/pseuds/iamsolarflare, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThaneZain/pseuds/ThaneZain
Summary: Ed hires Grian to be a nuisance.
Relationships: None
Series: it's a Fallen London/Minecraft Youtube au [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717144
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	Vexing the Vexation

**Author's Note:**

> hi solar here. everyone in this au has Fancy London Names so here's your usual disclaimer vis a vis the names
> 
> characters appearing: Axel Quail Anderson (Grian), Levi "Mumbo" Valentin (MumboJumbo), Ed (name unchanged), Scar Goodman (GoodTimesWithScar), Bernard Cumberland (Cubfan135), Iskall (name unchanged), and Jonathon "Cocky Jo" Kannon (Kakujo)

It was the middle of the afternoon when Grian woke up, as was his norm. He yawned, checking his mostly-accurate clock. By this time Mumbo would be out running errands, so he had the flat to himself for a little while.

After he got dressed and made his way to the pantry for some coffee, there was a knock at the door. Not unusual, as Grian was taking clients again, but for some reason the sound filled him with dread. There was no logical reason to be afraid of someone knocking - especially when it likely meant a new client - but something about it almost made him want to stay upstairs and ignore whoever had come calling.

He went downstairs and answered the door anyway, for politeness’s sake or whatever. “Hello?”

“Mister Grian.”

_ Oh, hell.  _ “Ed. Haven’t seen you around here in a while,” Grian said, trying to stay genial.

Ed—and it was definitely him, same calm and calculating stare, expression blank and piercing, same pair of cosmogone glasses folded onto his shirt-collar—took a polite step backwards and folded his hands behind his back. “No, I suppose you haven’t.”

So  _ this  _ was where the sense of impending doom had come from earlier. Grian wanted nothing more than to close the door in Ed’s face and go back to his coffee, but he had a feeling that that probably wasn’t the best idea. “Any particular reason you’ve come by?” 

“Of course,” the Glassman responded, idly adjusting the glasses on his collar. “I believe I have a job for you, Mister Grian. One you may be particularly… _ adept _ at.”

“Do you have a case?” Grian asked, beginning to feel curious despite himself. “Or is this like one of those times where you hire somebody to assassinate somebody else who you know will fail just so you can laugh at them?”

Ed let out a soft snort of mirthless laughter. “ _ Please _ . If I wanted someone dead, I’d see to it with a bit more  _ decorum _ . I suppose you could consider this a… continuation of sorts, an offshoot of a case. The legwork, if not the mystery itself.”

Grian leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms. “Did Jack kill somebody you know or something? All the ones we’ve intercepted have been destroyed, so I can’t get you revenge on any certain knife.”

Ed smiled for the first time, a thin glint of teeth with no particular hint of friendliness to the expression. “No, not quite. More—you were a thorn in a certain group’s side. I’d quite appreciate you continuing to be that annoyance.”

Grian snorted. “Nope, not annoying any more Masters. Good day,” he said, and began to close the door.

“—Not the Masters, no. Just a certain pair of their lackeys.” Ed unfolded the glasses off his collar calmly, flicking his wrist to open them. “I trust you know who I’m referring to by now. No need to drop names.”

Grian furrowed his brow, opening the door again. “Of course,” he said carefully. “Is this something you want done on the down low or am I allowed to enlist help?”

“I would appreciate your discretion.  _ You _ are already involved in my… affairs, as it were. Your housemate, not so much.” Ed had put his glasses on by now, and his expression was now even  _ more _ unreadable from behind the faint orange tint.

Grian looked away from the lenses. He’d heard stories of what you could see in a glassman’s glasses and he wasn’t particularly fond of ‘unkind truths.’ “Fine,” he said. “But the — ” He coughed. “Ahem.  _ We’ve _ established a rapport of sorts, and you want me to overturn that. Am I to gain anything from this or…?” He trailed off. Ed was definitely the kind of person to intimidate Grian into doing something for him, but it never hurt to ask.

“You’ll be remunerated, of course.” Ed’s smile—more of a  _ smirk, _ really—widened just slightly. “Although, and I mean no offense by this, it does seem as though that’s a  _ secondary _ motivation for you right now.”

There it was again. That feeling of being some sort of miniscule object of interest scrutinized by watchful eyes. “Thanks,” Grian muttered. “Good to know.” Ed knew what he was doing, and Grian knew Ed knew what he was doing, and Ed was probably well aware that Grian knew that he knew — and Grian  _ hated it.  _ “I’ll do it,” he said.  _ But I won’t be happy about it. _

“Excellent.” Ed turned around sharply, casually waving one hand without looking back to Grian. “There should be a document on your table with certain places of interest. I’ll leave you to it. Your assistance is highly appreciated.”

“Good day,” Grian said so quietly Ed probably didn’t hear it, trying to not let distaste creep into his tone. He closed the door, locked it, made sure it was locked, unlocked and relocked it, made sure it was locked again, and only then did he go back upstairs to his room to think and be annoyed about the document on his table that he  _ hoped _ he just hadn’t noticed earlier.

\---

Grian was less than thrilled that Ed Kannonfriend had dropped by for a visit. It wasn’t the job that bothered him, not at all. It was only a matter of time before the shaky truce with the Corporation of Conventionality was broken, and Grian was used to being a nuisance. In fact, he thought he was quite good at it, if he did say so himself. He could change his job title to ‘professional irritant’ if he wanted.

The problem was that he couldn’t share in his mischief this time. He had a habit of enlisting others to assist in his schemes; hell, he’d had at least eight other people on the ship to Polythreme and that was another instance that begged discretion. If he had gone to war with ConCorp without any external motivation he could have intercepted vital intelligence through the mail from Stress, dropped a note to Iskall to encourage him to examine ConCorp business practices a little closer, pay False to throw Vexation-endorsed fights, and have Mumbo at his side the whole time while doing it.

That was the most regrettable thing. Grian could have kicked himself for not insisting he involve Mumbo if no one else. It wasn’t that he didn’t keep secrets from his housemate, not in the slightest. Everyone had secrets in London and Grian was no exception. This wouldn’t be particularly hard to hide, either, as long as Grian used the excuse he was working with a private client. He just didn’t  _ like  _ it.

The document Ed had left - or, more likely, somebody had left on Ed’s behalf - was a neat list of ConCorp and Vexation related establishments. Grian recognized most of them, but there were a few that made him raise his eyebrows. He marked them with a pen to remember to research them later and glanced at his pocket-watch. Mumbo would be home soon.

He made a split second decision and shoved the list into his coat pocket, grabbing his hat and rushing out the door.

There was no harm in scouting out a potential battlefield. The first stop on Grian’s list was the ConCorp office itself. A tall, imposing building that dwarfed those around it, made of clean, sturdy brick. Grian went a few buildings down and ducked down a dark alleyway, scrambling up a concealed ladder to the roof. He scurried to the building adjacent to the office, staring up at the roof which was heavily urchin-proofed. From the clicking noises there were several guard-spiders patrolling the perimeter, not to mention the strings of barbed wire, spikes, and tar smeared on the edge to make it hard to grip.

It was a little much, to be honest. Urchins didn’t want much with government offices, and there probably wasn’t even an entrance on the roof.

The next stop was a series of little shops under Vexation protection. Grian paid much more attention to these, as they’d be pretty easy to target. A misplaced bill, an accusation of forgery, perhaps even tainted goods… all were possible and could be extremely detrimental if timed correctly. He took notes in shorthand in a pocket notebook he had, casually observing the patrons as they came and went. This wasn’t something he could finish by tripping Scar in the street and stealing his briefcase, although that would be amusing to say the least. Because Ed  _ and  _ the Vexation were involved, Grian wanted to be thorough.

_ It’d be better if it couldn’t be traced back to me at all, _ he thought as he dodged a reckless hansom on his way home. The last thing he needed was to get buried alive or have somebody he knew get buried alive again.

The remaining spots of interest he knew well enough to not visit—his presence alone would be considered suspect—but he was familiar enough with them to not need a refresher.

“Where were you?” Mumbo asked when Grian came up the stairs.

“Out,” Grian replied, hanging up his hat and coat.

“You never go out without a reason,” Mumbo said. “Do you have a client?”

“Of a sort,” Grian replied. “Utmost discretion and all that.”

“Yes, of course,” Mumbo said, rolling his eyes. “Carry on, then.” He didn’t seem the slightest bit perturbed, which was comforting to Grian. It wouldn’t take him too long to start asking questions, however.

Grian closed his door behind him, staring at the mess of his room. At least if Mumbo decided to snoop he wouldn’t have an easy time finding his ConCorp notes.

He pondered the list for a while, sifting through his personal files to find anything ConCorp related that could be helpful. After a few minutes, he struck gold.

**_PRESENTING THE HERMENEUTIC HERALD:_ **

**_A COLLABORATIVE PAPER WITH CONCORP_ **

**_AND ITS ASSOCIATES_ **

Grian had bought a copy of the paper from a trusted urchin but hadn’t found anything too interesting and had tossed it aside. But now, he saw it as his opening.

Printing presses were fragile things, were they not? And, perchance, easy to sabotage.

\---

Grian was familiar with Doubt Street. If the press painted him in a bad light, he wouldn’t get clients. Sure, he had been London’s darling for several weeks after the Jack case, but the press could make or break anyone. Early on he’d gone to Doubt Street and paid off a few writers to make sure he’d fall straight off the face of the earth instead of falling from grace. And luckily, it’d worked out.

The  _ Herald  _ office was a renovated building that had once held another newspaper that had floundered about for a few years before dropping into obscurity. The building had closed down and ConCorp money was funneled into fixing up the building, bringing in the latest in printing technologies, and hiring the best staff Echoes and other forms of currency could buy.

Grian strolled around near the office, trying to look casual as the newsboys hawked their wares and some likely underpaid staff member attempted to shoo a raven off one of the buildings. There was an advertisement on the side of the  _ Herald _ building that boasted the  _ Herald _ press had one of the first automatic sheet feeders in London and that it was 10 times faster than the average printing press.  _ There  _ was his target. It would take some prep, some planning, some scraping together of funds…but he could do it. 

\---

  
  


_**VEXATION RAIDS REACH NEW HIGH** _

After a freak explosion at the  _ Hermeneutic Herald  _ printing company headquarters that resulted in the destruction of their printing press, Vexation raids have increased in frequency and brutality. Two shops in Spite were hit as well as a few vendors along the Bazaar Sidestreets. Ties between ConCorp and the Vexation might have resulted in a mutual increase in frustration of the groups, but only time will tell.

  
  
  


\---

The printing press was only the first step, and it had gone off nearly without a hitch. Because of his lack of trust in anyone he’d have to pay off, Grian had set off the explosion himself, and his jacket would probably smell of gunpowder for a few weeks. There had been that slight mishap with some poor underpaid pressman who had fallen asleep in the paper room. Grian had given him all eight Echoes he had on him and a spore-toffee and had sternly told the boy if he told anyone— _ anyone— _ what he’d seen, Grian would find him and send him to the river faster than he could blink.

He spent the next few days laying low, casually checking the papers for any more news about the Vexation. The press usually skirted around the fact that the Vexation and ConCorp were the same, but everyone knew they were. The raids didn’t let up any, but eventually Grian deemed it safe enough to poke his head out again.

By directly confronting the Vexation.

Of course, they wouldn’t know it was him. Grian’s next plan consisted of starting an all-out war between the Vexation and the common people. Ed wanted him to be a thorn? Well then, he’d make them  _ bleed. _

Grian told himself it wasn’t anything personal. It was just business. Scar and Cub hadn’t done anything to slight him personally since they’d worked out their differences. Still, something about thwarting the most feared gang, the most powerful commercial entity, and the right hand men to the Masters of the Bazaar all in the same fell swoop felt…gratifying.

He just wished he had _someone_ to tell about it. 

His next plan involved an old Hallowmas mask and Spite, which was where he was currently headed. He’d caught wind from a few passing cats that the next Vexation raid was to happen on a small antiques shop that doubled as an export point for illicit romantic literature being shipped off to the Khanate, and that the Vexation would be arriving within the hour. Of course, with the Treachery of Clocks there was no real way to tell within  _ which  _ hour they’d be arriving, but Grian had a hunch. He ducked down a small alleyway and affixed the ancient bird mask to his face, shaking his head a few times to make sure it wouldn’t come off.

Grian knew he couldn’t confront the Vexation in person. Cub and Scar were some of the most formidable people he knew, and when they had their own grinning masks on they were nigh unstoppable.

But he could push a few people in the right direction.

His first stop was at a neighboring storefront to the antique shop, a purveyor of papercrafts. Fine notebooks lined the shelves and expensive pens were kept in a glass case. A few other patrons perused the stock, but Grian wanted them to hear.

“How can I help you…sir?” The man behind the counter squinted at him, clearly confused by the choice of attire.

“The Vexation will be here soon,” Grian replied without preamble.

The man’s eyes widened. “I must go warn—”

“No,” Grian said sharply, “We have let them rule us for too long. How many times have you watched other shop owners thrown to the curb as the Vexation destroy their shop? How many times have you seen  _ that shade  _ of blue paint splashed against signs as a warning, defacing our property? This has to end. It’s us or them."

"Real page off the ol' calendar," one of the patrons muttered, staring at him, but the vast majority of the other customers seemed to be following the trail he was putting down. The residents of Spite, after all, would take any excuse for a hearty riot - that it was for a noble cause was practically just a bonus.

“Tell your friends!” Grian cried. “Tell your enemies! The end of our Vexing is nigh!”

The shop owner’s eyes had gone steely cold. “I will. Thank you. What shall I call you, pray tell, that I may give them the name of the one who opened my eyes?”

Grian did a double take. “Er…Gorba, sir.”

Before the man could question his utterly terrible alias, Grian had already ducked out of the store and was  _ very _ ready to move to the next one.

His mission continued shop to shop along Spite, dodging pickpockets and fishing lines from the roofs above. At each establishment he dropped hints to patrons and shopkeepers alike that the downfall of the Vexation would _ — _ or at least certainly  _ could— _ be at the hands of the people. Couriers began spreading his words along their route, people began nodding to him as they saw his masked face in the street, and there was an odd tension in the air.

And then, while he was skulking down an alleyway, someone put a hand on his shoulder. Grian jumped, whipping around and putting a hand to his mask to make sure it stayed on.

"Interesting choice of tactics. Perhaps a bit  _ loud _ , but that  _ does _ seem to be your specialty."

Grian nearly jumped out of his skin before composing himself, trying not to let himself be ruffled. “Hello, Ed. Fancy meeting you here.”

The Glassman's expression remained blank and piercing as ever, save for a brief, wry smile flitting across his face. "Don't fool yourself into believing in coincidences, now. Keep up the good work."

With just as little preamble as he'd appeared, Ed turned around and walked off, further into the alley that Grian could  _ swear _ was a dead end. He turned back to the streets of Spite, suppressing a shudder as he did so.

And not a moment too soon. “Vexation!” the cry went up, and instead of the normal response of people retreating into shops, they poured into the streets. Grian allowed himself to be pushed to the front of the shouting crowd. Spite really had brought out its metaphorical torches and pitchforks (and also a few literal ones), and the two silvery-masked figures prowling southwards hadn’t expected them in the slightest.

“Back!” one of them shouted. Grian guessed it was Scar by the tone. “All of you, back! This is Master’s business!”

“Codswallop!” a grimy man near Grian yelled. “It’s jus’ an excuse for you lot to take our hard-earned money and wreck our things!”

The mob shouted in agreement. Grian raised a fist in the air, leaping on top of a nearby stack of crates. “Protect the shops!” he yelled from his vantage point. “These are our livelihoods they’re threatening! We—"

The mob was already roaring forward before he had the chance to finish. A well-intentioned group formed a strong shield in front of the antiques shop, but the Vexation wouldn’t even have had the chance to go near it. They were swept up in the crowd of shouting people, and even once the neddy-men from the docks showed up to control the crowds they were completely thrown off from their task.

In fact, the presence of the neddy-men only seemed to serve to aggravate the crowd further _ — _ from afar, Grian could see a group of slightly less well-intentioned neddy-men attempting to group up and break through a riot line, only to be picked apart by an oddly familiar figure with a bloodstained white scarf over his face.

Grian leapt neatly off the crates into the mob, weaving his way back towards Veilgarden and away from the crowd. A strong hand grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him backwards.  _ Oh, no, not again— _

Fortunately, this was not Ed appearing to intimidate him once more. Unfortunately, this was probably worse.

“ _ You, _ ” one of the Vexation hissed in Grian’s ear. Grian could imagine the sheer rage on the man’s face beneath the grinning mask. “We know who you are _.” _

Grian tried to pull away from the clawlike grasp of the Vex, but he only tightened his grip on Grian’s shoulder. Grian twisted around and glimpsed a gun at the man’s hip. That and the rougher voice—this was Bernard Cumberland himself he was speaking with. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, deeping his voice in an attempt to throw suspicion.

“Need I remind you what happened the last time you crossed us,  _ Grian? _ ” Cub growled, just audible over the crowd. With that remark, he shoved Grian away and was lost in the crush of shouting people. Grian stumbled, trying to re-orient himself in the street. He had to get out of here. The world seemed to spin around him and the overwhelming din of people was giving him a headache.

The Convex already knew where he lived anyway. He might as well leave as quickly as possible.

Grian began shoving his way through the mob, ducking at least two cudgels and, inexplicably, an oar as he went. He tore his mask off so as to be more inconspicuous (oh, the irony) and shoved it into his coat. 

The crowd was thankfully not as impossible to leave as it was to get further into _ — _ a few helping hands here and there even pulled him aside, and one likely well-meaning but entirely off-base person even told him he'd best head to the Flit for a while. He declined, a bit harshly in hindsight, but his mind was occupied with other matters.

Finally, as soon as Grian passed the steeple of St. Fiacre’s, the crowds had thinned. Grian started walking quicker and quicker, eventually breaking into a run as he dodged hansoms and passers-by on his way back to Moloch Street. He yanked the mask out from beneath his jacket and threw it to the side, only just glimpsing a raven land on it from the corner of his eye.

“Oh, just keep the damned thing, you pesky bird!” Grian yelled over his shoulder, and rushed towards home.

He burst into the apartment, eyes still wild and frantic. “Mumbo,” he said to his friend in a shaky voice. “I have something to tell you.”

Mumbo furrowed his brow, standing up from his writing desk where he’d been working. “What’s wrong?”

Grian slammed the door shut behind him and locked it. He dashed to the window and threw the curtains closed.

“Grian? You’re scaring me,” Mumbo said in a worried tone.

Grian whirled back to face Mumbo. “I’ve made a terrible mistake,” he whispered, eyes darting around the room. “I—I—“

Mumbo approached Grian warily, placing a careful hand on his back. “Sit down,” he said gently. “You’re pale as a sheet.”

Grian allowed himself to be guided to his couch and sat down heavily. He didn’t protest as Mumbo sat down next to him, hand still on his shoulder. “Tell me everything,” Mumbo said.

Grian took a shaky breath. “Alright. So, Ed dropped by a fair bit ago. He…he wanted me to do something for him. Not even really anything new, honestly.” He smiled humorlessly. “He wanted me to keep bothering the Vexation. Or ConCorp. Whichever.”

Mumbo drew back a little. “The printing press. You  _ didn’t _ .”

Grian laughed dryly. “I did. And—more recently—the protests at Spite market that you’ll hear about in the papers soon. The Vexation showed up and Cub saw me. They had their masks on but I knew it was him, I knew it. He grabbed me and said he recognized me. And…you remember what happened last time?”

Mumbo shook his head in disbelief. “How could I forget?” he said. “I can’t believe you didn’t  _ tell _ me.”

Grian threw up his hands. “Ed told me not to! And I didn’t want you to be involved this time so that if this happened they’d only come for me.”

“I’m already guilty by association, Grian,” Mumbo said, and sighed deeply. 

“I know,” Grian said miserably. “I just wanted to protect you. If you didn’t know anything they’d be more likely to leave you alone.”

“You shouldn’t have told me,” Mumbo said, and Grian looked up in surprise. “I’m serious. If Ed told you not to tell me then you shouldn’t have. You’ve said he’s not one to trifle with, and I can’t necessarily help you.”

“Yes, but you can  _ listen _ ,” Grian said, desperation in his voice. “Secrets are a part of life in the Neath, but I  _ hate _ being a part of a game like this. I don’t know  _ why _ Ed wants me to be a bother to the Vexation. Do you know what it’s like not  _ knowing?” _

Mumbo smiled slightly. “That’s my entire life, not knowing.”

“How do you cope?” Grian groaned, dropping his head into his hands. 

“I accept it and move on,” Mumbo said, shrugging. “I’m never going to know what’s in everybody’s head so I do my best to know what’s going on in mine.”

Grian looked up, brow furrowed. “How very admirable of you. Wish I could learn how.”

Mumbo grinned. “Isn’t hard. You just have to learn how not to care.”

\---

_**RABBLE-ROUSER GONE SILENT** _

The supposed Mr. Gorba, masked instigator of the Spite Market Riot, has vanished from the public eye. The battle between Vexation and the civilians has for the moment ceased, and ConCorp itself has reached out to key protest leaders to establish new terms, acting as a go-between for the Masters. It is unknown if Gorba is to be involved in this negotiation, as he has not been seen since the first Spite Riot earlier this week.

\---

A few days later Grian skulked into the third building on Concord Square, trying to stay as unnoticeable as possible. He entered an office without knocking, startling the man inside slightly.

“Grian!” Iskall said, straightening his monocle. “Haven’t seen you around lately. Been staying out of trouble, have you?”

Grian laughed dryly. “Actually, that’s why I’m here. I’ve gotten myself into a spot of bother and—”

“And you’d like help getting out of it, I’m guessing,” Iskall finished.

“In a sense,” Grian said, shoving his hands into his coat pockets.

Iskall studied Grian for a minute. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the rioting in Spite, would it?”

Grian smiled nervously. “And what if it did?”

“Doesn’t really matter, I was just wondering,” Iskall said with a shrug. “Shall I come by later or is this an urgent matter?”

“It’s a  _ little _ urgent,” Grian said. “I’d rather you come with me.”

Iskall grinned. “I’ll let the lads know I’m leaving early today. I’ll meet you outside.”

\---

Mumbo was pacing the front room when Grian returned with Iskall in tow. “Oh good, he came,” Mumbo said. “We’ve got that in our favor. Good to see you, Iskall.”

Iskall nodded in return. “Anybody want to tell me what we’re up against?”

“Oh, you know,” Grian said, waving a hand. “Just the Vexation.”

“Yes, of course,” Iskall said, rolling his eyes. “How is it that you attract the attention of every dangerous group in London without even trying? As far as I know, the New Sequence  _ still _ wants you dead!”

“I don’t make a habit of it, things just happen,” Grian complained. “Any action, Mumbo?”

Mumbo shook his head. “All quiet. Well, apart from some sort of bird that’s been singing like it’s the end of days outside our window.”

As if on cue, a sharp tapping noise came from outside the window - the very same raven Grian had tossed his mask at, carrying it in one claw and rapping at the pane almost accusingly with its beak.

Grian sighed. “Just what I need,” he muttered. “A bird condemning me for littering.” He waved his hands at the offending creature, stalking towards the window. “Shoo!”

The bird did not shoo. In fact, it narrowed its little bird eyes in what was  _ definitely  _ an accusatory manner and began pecking at the window latch.

Grian threw open the window, ignoring Mumbo’s “Are you sure that’s a good idea—” and confronting the bird directly.

“I said you could keep it,” Grian said to the raven, annoyed. 

"And I, I rather think  _ you _ should keep it!" the raven snapped back, only faltering slightly in its speech. "This is, is a service I'm doing for you, you know! You ought not leave evidence lying about!"

It picked up the mask with one talon and tossed it disdainfully onto the floor. "Now if, if you'll excuse me, I will be leaving before some urchin tries to, to pluck my feathers."

“Thank you kindly,” Grian snapped as he snatched up the mask. He shut the window with a bit more force than necessary and didn’t even make sure the bird had gone. “Anyway,” he said in a much calmer voice, turning back to his companions. “Do excuse the interruption. Pesky thing,” he muttered under his breath.

Iskall was unfazed by the situation, having found a comfortable spot to sit and rifle through Grian’s things. Mumbo rolled his eyes and handed Iskall a few pages of notes. “I’m guessing that’s the mask you wore to the riot, ‘Mr. Gorba?’” he quipped.

“Oh, hush, I was a bit preoccupied,” Grian shot back. “And in any case, it doesn’t matter now. They know it’s me which is the  _ whole reason Iskall’s here in the first place.” _

Iskall coughed, looking up from the unrelated book he was flipping through, having laid the notes aside without looking at them. “Yep, that’s me.”

“We really should get some planning done before—”

A large hunk of cobble splattered with blue paint crashed through the window and glass exploded into the air. “Too late,” Grian cried. “They’re here!” Miraculously, none of them were hit with shards and they all exploded into action. Mumbo lunged for his coat and a bag of supplies. Iskall brought out his gun. Grian strapped his sword around his waist.

Shouting could be heard through the broken window. A small group, more than just the two Vex. “Fantastic,” Grian muttered under his breath. “They’ve brought goons.”

“Apparently,” Iskall said, inching towards the window and peeking out. “At least eight people. Might be more circling around to the back.”

“They’re going to try to block us in,” Mumbo said, tossing a bag of stolen anarchist explosives to Grian, mainly flash bombs. “Come on.”

The three dashed down the stairs and into the disused bookshop on the first floor. “Northwest window?” Grian asked Mumbo, who nodded. They wove through the stacks to a window - one that hopefully looked from outside like it was too high to exit from, with a hidden ladder that had been recently installed. It opened to a small alley that the Vexation hadn’t gotten to yet, and they efficiently clambered down to the cobble with minimal bruises. “Cub and Scar will be out front while the others break in for them,” Iskall said. “They’ll definitely have people on the roof if nowhere else so the Flit isn’t an option. We’ll have to fight our way out.”

“That’s why we have you here, right?” Grian said, clapping him on the back. “Let’s go.”

Grian ran towards the back alley, the other two close on his heels. They’d left just in time - a few of the Vexation’s men spotted them from behind and the cobble around them cracked with gunshots. Iskall returned fire over his shoulder before they rounded a corner right into another group of hired guns. Grian and Iskall immediately dove to opposite sides of the alley as Mumbo skipped a smoke bomb off the cobble and into the gang before they could react.

Grian shielded his eyes as white smoke exploded into the air around them, surprising the Vexation’s men. He tried to breathe shallowly as he stumbled towards where Mumbo and Iskall had gone, towards the exit to Moloch Street, but ran headlong into a grizzled man holding an impressive array of knives. Grian blocked his first stab with his bag and kicked at the man’s knees. He heard Mumbo calling his name but couldn’t reply. He swiped at his stinging eyes as more men joined the first and pushed him further back into the alley. It was all he could do to dodge the knives and cudgels and when he tried to turn and run he found his exit blocked by the current two top people he’d  _ least _ wanted to end up in close quarters with.

“Leave us. Find the others,” one of the Vex snarled to their enforcers, who immediately turned back to the rapidly clearing smoke to chase Iskall and Mumbo.

Grian could not distinguish between the two Vex at all this time and the clearing smoke didn’t help. Both were dressed nearly identically and their masks completely covered their faces. Instead of a gun, both had ornate swords sheathed at their hips. Grian’s eyes darted between the two of them, absolutely unnerved by the fact that he couldn’t tell who was who.

“We told you to stay out of our business,” one hissed. “You have done the exact opposite.”

“Tragically, the Masters take no interest in the petty matters of us men,” the other said with a much too delicate sigh. “So we have to take care of you ourselves.”

“What are you going to do?” Grian said, trying to stay defiant. “Send me to the river for good? Beat me to a pulp? Two against one, I like those odds. Especially since one Scar Goodman isn’t as good at violence as he lets on.”

Neither of the Vex moved or made any sort of indication of offense, despite Grian searching their features desperately. He wilted slightly, mind racing as he tried to take stock of what advantages he had. In such an enclosed space, with his back against a wall, his explosives would be deadly. He hadn’t thought to bring a gun (that’s why he had  _ Iskall, _ so he wouldn’t make a fool of himself when he couldn’t hit a damn thing) and, while he  _ did _ have his sword, one blade against two relatively skilled swordsmen was  _ not _ going to make much of a difference in his personal survival.

“Oh, Mr. Anderson,” the Vex on the left said. “We’re not going to kill you. We’re just going to make sure you  _ remember  _ what we’re capable of.”

“So you’re going to scar me then,” Grian said, rolling his eyes. “How creative. Also it’s  _ Grian. _ You should know that by now.”

“His nickname fits him,” the Vex on the right said in a low voice to his compatriot, who nodded in agreement. “Well then,  _ Grian, _ have you ever heard of Cantigaster venom?”

Grian’s eyes widened slightly. “Sure I have. But I thought you weren’t going to kill me.”

“Oh, we aren’t,” said the Vex on the left as they drew their swords in unison. “We’re just going to hurt you very,  _ very _ badly.”

Grian threw up his hands to shield a blow that never came. Or, rather, it  _ did _ come, but it clanged against something. Metal.

“Two people powered by weird masks versus one amateur detective doesn’t seem quite fair,” said an all-too familiar voice, muffled just  _ slightly _ by a bloodstained scarf.

Grian peeked out from behind his hands at his saviour. “Hello, Kannon,” he said, trying to stay casual and tamp down his panic. “Glad you turned up.”

Kannon - and it definitely  _ was _ him - raised his hand-axe and casually parried another blow, face uncharacteristically blank. “I’ll take the bruiser if you take Goodman. You know,  _ gentlemen _ , I’m not really a fan of the way you two treat Spite like your own personal stomping-grounds.”

Grian glanced between the two Vex again, baffled by how Kannon could tell them apart. Not wanting to waste any more time, he drew his rapier and parried a blow from the Vex that was apparently Scar. He was unprepared and still shaky from adrenaline but just managed to hold his own as Scar pressed forwards. “Didn’t know you were such a good fencer considering you can’t fight with much else,” Grian said cheekily, regaining a bit of his old confidence, and Scar snarled in response. They danced over the cobble, swords ringing against each other as Grian did his best to keep Scar’s sword away from him at all costs. Eventually he fell into a rhythm, seeing where Scar would strike and turning the tide in his favor. 

From behind them, there was a sickening  _ CRUNCH _ sound, like someone getting tossed against a wall, hard. Apparently Kannon needed very little rhythm in the first place - he’d already stalked over to the Vex he was facing down and wrenched the weapon out of Cub’s hands.

“Fisticuffs,” Kannon practically  _ snarled _ , voice dripping with anger as he tossed his own weapon to the ground. “Let’s make this  _ simple. _ ”

Grian glanced over his shoulder for a split second and was rewarded by a white-hot iron being pressed against the back of his neck. Or at least, that’s what it felt like. He gasped in shock, free hand flying to the wound that Scar had just given him, just barely able to block Scar’s next few attacks. From what Grian could tell through his blinding pain, the following blows seemed somewhat halfhearted, as though Scar was distracted by the fight happening just over Grian’s shoulder. He gritted his teeth and with two heavy slashes managed to knock Scar’s blade from his hand. “Yield,” he hissed.

“Fine,” Scar said, voice breathy as he raised his hands to his head. “Yield.”

Grian flicked the grinning mask with the tip of his blade. “Off.”

Scar slowly took the mask off and held it gingerly with both hands. He looked so much more human the minute his face was visible, and definitely more scared. Grian’s sword tip trembled, barely an inch from the point between Scar’s now visible eyes that kept flicking back to Kannon’s fight.

Grian growled deep in his throat, blinking dark spots out of his eyes. He scooped up Scar’s blade and kept his eyes on him to make sure he was  _ definitely  _ no longer a threat, but he was focused on the all-out brawl happening between Cub and Kannon.

Cub had scrambled back to where his sword was tossed; his hand hovered uncertainly over the hilt.

"Go ahead," Kannon said, jerking his head towards the weapon. There was a strange lack of inflection to his tone, none of the usual excitement or even intentional seriousness. Even the previous anger in his voice had bled out. "So we're closer to an even match."

Cub didn’t move for a second, calculating. In one fluid motion he knocked the sword away with his foot and took a step towards Kannon. “You may think so.”

Kannon just stared at Cub, that strange scrutinizing look that Grian was starting to feel unfortunately very familiar with. "That was a mistake."

Grian knew what Cub was capable of. But he also knew what  _ Kannon  _ was capable of, and that tone of voice… those mannerisms… they were disarmingly like Ed’s.

There was no way for him to tell who would win.

Cub lunged forward without a moment of hesitation, drawing his fist back and driving it directly into Kannon’s stomach; Kannon stumbled back a few feet, only to be caught by another punch directly to the face. The way Cub fought reminded Grian of a shark - quick, brutal, efficient; no faffing about with unnecessary flourishes or showing off. He was the polar opposite of Scar, who disguised his lack of martial skill with a grandiose fighting style that had little to no actual substance. 

Again, Cub lunged. Again, Kannon took another direct blow and staggered back slightly, making no attempt to counter or even evade, simply staring back at Cub between attacks.

“What are you playing at?” Cub hissed as he landed another hit squarely on Kannon’s jaw. “Think you can outlast me?”

“I can, but no.” Kannon’s grin was altogether even more sharklike than Cub’s methodical combat. “I just think it’s a shame to send someone downriver feeling like they got nothing accomplished.”

“Cub’s on at least four cups of darkdrop,” Scar murmured to Grian, engrossed by the scene unfolding in front of him and ignoring Grian’s incredulous look. “He’s been really looking forward to this raid.”

“Glad to hear it,” Grian hissed through clenched teeth, hand clamped on the back of his neck. “I’m still betting on Kannon.”

Cub leapt forwards with a nigh inhuman roar, backhanding Kannon so hard Grian was sure his neck would snap. He winced in sympathy as Cub followed up with a flurry of jabs to Kannon’s chest and side.

And then, quite abruptly, those blows stopped connecting. Kannon had jumped back a few feet out of range and was now braced with one foot against the dead end of the alleyway, looking a bit more bloodied but just as ready to spring into action otherwise.

“All right, that’s enough.” He paused, held up one hand, and then there was a sharp  _ pop _ as he forced one shoulder back into its socket, wincing only slightly. “I’m guessing you haven’t been around Watchmaker’s Hill much lately?”

Cub snarled in response, not deigning him with a reply. His stance was guarded, still put off by Kannon’s behavior, but he lunged forwards for another attack.

This time, though, the same swift and savage blow he’d gone in for before was cut abruptly short by Kannon shoving his arm aside almost  _ disdainfully _ , facial expression so blank and calculating that for a second Grian was half expecting Ed’s cosmogone glasses to materialize on his face in order to complete the look.

“It’s really rude to ignore direct questions, y’know?” He sighed, almost over-exaggeratedly parrying another sharp blow with a wave of his hand. “I’m really trying to have a bit of a civilized dialogue here before you take a boat trip.”

“You  _ insolent  _ man,” Cub growled. “Are you going to take this fight seriously or not?”

“Oh, I  _ am _ .” Kannon straightened up -  _ straightened up  _ \- and shifted in stance just slightly, one foot scratching in the dirt as he braced his other foot back up against the wall again. It was almost like he’d fully become an entirely different person in the span of a few seconds, one that was frankly  _ radiating _ a sort of dangerousness rarely seen. “I just don’t think  _ you  _ are. Or, like I said, you’ve not heard the chatter in the Blind Helmsman for a while.”

“How  _ dare  _ you,” Cub hissed, lowering his stance just slightly.

“Here we go,” Scar said under his breath.

Grian shook his head slightly, eyes wide. He’d never really seen Kannon like this. It was… honestly, it was terrifying. Cub, on the other hand, was obviously tiring. He was leaning forwards slightly and Grian could see his shoulders were heaving for breath.

“He’s not going to give this up, is he,” he asked Scar, more of a statement than a question.

Scar snorted. “Never seen him back down from a fight. Don’t see why this would be an exception.”

Grian sucked in a breath. “It should be. It really should be.”

Cub darted forwards again, aiming for Kannon’s formerly dislocated shoulder - and for the first time since the beginning of the fight, Kannon made an aggressive move, bringing one knee up directly into Cub’s stomach before kicking him back several feet and stepping forward, closing the gap again.

He rolled his neck, joints popping just slightly, like the savage blow had been something he hadn’t even needed to exert the slightest bit of energy on. “Would you like some life advice,  _ Mister  _ Cumberland?”

Cub didn’t answer for a few seconds, doubled over in pain. His mask was slipping slightly and he didn’t bother to fix it, instead choosing to reply to Kannon’s question with an obscene gesture.

“Well, that’s new,” Scar said in a thoughtful tone.

“At least that was an  _ answer _ .” Kannon took another step forward, by now practically  _ looming _ over Cub given that the masked businessman was doubled over and his own stance was starkly tall. “You’re learning.  _ Slowly. _ Not exactly protege material, but I don’t really  _ do _ proteges, so…”

“Oh, good God, he’s going to kill Cub,” Grian said, words tumbling out of his mouth unbounded.

Scar looked at him askance. “He’s still got a chance, look—”

Grian shook his head, eyes wide, wound on his neck forgotten. “You don’t get it.  _ He’s going to kill Cub. _ ”

Cub, for his part, didn’t seem to register his impending doom, and surged forwards with another gravelly roar, barreling towards Kannon, who once more stood and braced against the attack before slowly and  _ deliberately _ yanking Cub off him by the back collar of his shirt and  _ hurling _ him directly into a wall.

The brick cracked on impact.

Kannon lunged forward again, cutting off Cub’s attempt to rise to his feet with a sharp and brutal stomp directly onto his right leg. His expression remained blank and calm the whole time,  _ still _ devoid of any real emotion save for what might’ve been a sympathetic wince as he brought his knee up from the ground straight into Cub’s chin, knocking him onto his back.

Scar and Grian watched wide-eyed as Cub struggled to rise. “Stay down, stay down,” Scar murmured pleadingly.

Cub did not stay down. Leg probably broken, ribs cracked, and a concussion to boot, the man was still trying to fight. Grian thought it was admirable, albeit extremely foolish.

“Here’s that advice I mentioned,” Kannon said quietly, yanking Cub upright by his front collar this time. “Pay more attention to when people are  _ trying to warn you _ .” He changed his grip slightly and flicked his wrist downwards, slamming Cub back down directly onto the cobbles of the alleyway with enough force to literally (albeit briefly) shake the ground.

There was a long silence in the alley, broken by Kannon stretching and seemingly - well, it couldn’t really be called  _ going back to normal _ after what Grian had just seen, but it was something approximating that - the cold expression had faded from his face, the glint in his eyes was less calculating and more friendly mania.

“So, I take it the Vexation will be leaving the good people of Spite alone for a little while?”

Scar nodded dumbly, eyes on the corpse lying on the cobble. “I’ll...I’ll see to that,” he stammered, taking a few halting steps backwards.

Grian hadn’t moved since Kannon had done  _ that.  _ He honestly wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Scar wordlessly took his sword from Grian and sheathed it, handling it as though it might bite him. He edged over to Cub’s body and heaved him up off the ground, striding awkwardly out of the alleyway without even a glance back.

It was at that moment that Iskall and Mumbo decided to turn up, covered in soot and scorch marks.

“What the hell happened?” Iskall asked, sidling up to Grian and watching Scar awkwardly carry Cub away. “Who…?”

Grian jerked a thumb towards Kannon, who was currently idly nudging the sword Cub had left on the ground with one foot.

“Hmm,” Kannon said, in a normal tone like he hadn’t just completely murdered someone, “Scar forgot his friend’s implement of stabbification.”

“Trophy,” Iskall said helpfully, catching on. “So you’re the one who bloodied up ol’ Bernard? Impressive.”

The voices faded into background noise for Grian as he sat down hard on the pavement. The cantigaster venom had caught up with him and there was a strange numbness beginning to creep across his shoulders and up to his face.

“Thanks for the assist,” he said in Kannon’s general direction. “I owe you one. Let me know if I can—” Grian inhaled sharply. “—pay you back somehow. Sorry. Venom’s getting to me.” He weakly gestured at his neck. Spots were dancing at the edge of his vision again, which was decidedly a bad thing.

Kannon shrugged, hooking his foot underneath the sword and flipping it upwards into the air, catching the hilt with one hand. “Eh. Don’t worry about it. Just keep… doing… things. I’m gonna talk to Ed about this. You should probably go take a nap or something.”

“Thanks,” Grian slurred, listing over slowly. Mumbo caught him just before he fell, eyes full of worry. “Just gonna. Fall asleep right here.”

“Grian? Grian? What were you saying about venom? What happ—”

Grian’s vision went black before he could hear the end of Mumbo’s question - and, thankfully, before he had to answer.

\---

Grian woke up to a dark room, unable to move half his face or feel a good portion of his upper body. He groaned deep in his throat as the memories of the fight came crashing down on him and he closed his eyes again, willing himself to go back to sleep.

“Grian? You awake?”

Grian made a noncommittal noise in his throat and flopped his arm over his face as Mumbo turned the lights on in the room.

“You weren’t any more hurt than the scratch on your neck,” Mumbo said gently. Can you move anything?”

Grian raised his arms straight up and waggled them impertinently. Mumbo rolled his eyes, smiling. “Good to know. Talking’s off the table though?”

“Mrghh,” Grian said. The edges of the numbness tingled, and occasionally felt like small needle pricks. He could have traced the edges of the void of feeling.

“Well, there’s not much I can do for you,” Mumbo said. “Hopefully the paralysis isn’t permanent. Heard a story about a barman who was paralyzed from the waist down because he consumed a half a drop of the stuff. A half a drop! Can you imagine the potency?”

Grian levelled Mumbo with an awkward glare, squinting through his lashes. Mumbo laughed. “I guess you can. Sorry.”

Grian groaned again, doing his best to sit up with a nonfunctioning neck. Mumbo rushed to help him, bringing over another pillow to prop his neck up so it wouldn’t flop around unbounded.

“Nrrrs,” Grian mumbled.

“News? Um, Iskall went home, talking about what a jolly time he had. Silence from ConCorp and the Vexation.”

Grian’s head listed to the left and Mumbo nudged it back upright.

“Thbbb.”

“You’re welcome. The paralysis should fade in a few hours according to Iskall, but...it’s not going to be a quick recovery. It’s going to hurt,” Mumbo said tentatively. “I’ve cleared your schedule for a few weeks so you’ll have time to get back on your feet.”

Grian let out a heavy sigh. Ed had better be paying a small fortune for this.

The next couple of days were the worst. Grian could barely eat nor sleep because of the agony. Cantigaster venom lingered in the system, targeting the nerves directly, or so Mumbo said. Grian believed him. The numbness didn’t leave him either, and supposedly it wouldn’t for a long time. Grian could still move mostly unfettered, but it would take a bit for him to be able to smile with his whole face again.

Eventually he was able to at least get up and get dressed, still not leaving the house. He took care of some matters from the study, writing a few letters and scouring the papers for any mention of his name or the Vexation. Nothing.

Several days later, Grian woke to his name being called at an ungodly hour in the morning. Mumbo’s voice echoed up the stairs, something about someone being there to see him. 

Grian’s eyes cracked open slightly and he carefully rolled over in bed to look at the clock on the wall. “It’s eleven thirty, tell them to come again later!” he called back grumpily.

“I really think you’d like to talk to them  _ now! _ ” Mumbo replied, and Grian could detect a certain shrillness that sent him scrambling to put on presentable clothes. He winced whenever he so much as turned his head to look at something, and the high-collared shirts he tended to favor were nigh agony to wear for much longer than an hour or so.

After pulling on a random pair of trousers and a decently clean shirt, Grian made his way to the front room. Standing at the door behind a very nervous-looking Mumbo was none other than Bernard Cumberland himself.

“Greetings,” Cub said stiffly. “I’d like to discuss the matter of our recent…conflict, if it so pleases you.”

“It doesn’t,” Grian said sourly, scrubbing sleep out of one eye. “But I don’t believe I have a choice in the matter.”

“I’ll leave you both to it,” Mumbo said breathily, heading back upstairs with a little more energy than usual.

Cub and Grian stared at each other awkwardly before Cub pretty much pushed past him and let himself into the flat. Grian raised an eyebrow at his impertinence but didn’t say anything, just closed the door behind him.

Cub took his hat off and squinted at Grian. “Where,” he started, “—on  _ earth  _ did you meet Jonathan Kannon?”

Grian’s face broke into a gleeful smile. “Oh, him? Interesting guy, isn’t he? You meet some fun people in my line of work.” He tapped his chin. “Hmmm, Kannon. I believe I met him at a party! Or maybe it was a boxing match?” His smile widened as Cub inhaled sharply.

“I’m not here to be mocked, Grian,” Cub said, obviously trying to keep his cool. “You don’t know what it was  _ like  _ to fight him. The man is  _ inhuman.” _

Grian raised an eyebrow. “No, I don’t, Cub. But I  _ do  _ know what it’s like to be outnumbered by two Vexation armed with swords coated in Cantigaster venom.” He shot Cub a pointed glance, tugging his collar down.

Cub winced. “I—deepest apologies for that,” he said, unable to tear his eyes away from the angry red slash. “We were…only ever supposed to scare you.”

Grian rolled his eyes. “Sure. You didn’t tell your partner that, though. He seemed quite eager to take me down by any means necessary.”

Cub glanced away. “You  _ did  _ blow up our printing press. And start a riot in Spite. And—”

“So that warrants  _ Cantigaster venom,” _ Grian said acidly. “Spite riots at the drop of a hat. And if it wasn’t me who blew up the press, it would be some anarchist who thinks the news is spreading lies of light and law or something.”

Cub twisted his hands together awkwardly, avoiding Grian’s level glare. “We have a reputation to uphold. The Masters rely on us to keep order and punish those who fail to fall into line.”

“So that excuses a personal attack on at most two people while you’re backed up by half a squadron of neddy men? The Vexation has never done what they’re supposed to, they’ve only driven fear and hatred into the hearts of the people,” Grian snapped, internally startled by his own words. Maybe he was really becoming more of a page on the calendar than he thought.

“It’s not like that was unfounded!” Cub protested. “You had backup too!”

“Kannon was a  _ passerby,” _ Grian snarled. “He was the most honorable man there, sticking himself into a fight he wasn’t even involved in. The fact that you were absolutely  _ launched  _ to the river was your own fault and no one else’s.”

Cub took a step back, eyes wide. “What was I supposed to do, back down? I was defending the honor of the Vexation—”

“What honor is there in what you do, Cub? Attacking innocent people, threatening them, acting like you  _ own  _ Spite. And more, what honor was there in attacking  _ me,  _ unarmed and not a threat to you or Scar—”

“You were a threat to our supremacy!”

“See! See! You admit to it!” Grian said, pointing an accusatory finger at Cub.

Cub sucked in a shaky breath, fists clenched. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he said through gritted teeth. “Working for the Masters. You think  _ we’re  _ a threat to the freedom of the people? They control  _ everything,” _ he said through clenched teeth, speaking fast as though he was afraid someone would hear him.

“I think you should reconsider your employment,” Grian said, folding his arms. “I’ve gone toe-to-toe with a Master and I’m still here.”

“ _ Barely, _ ” Cub said. “And Mr. Valentin almost wasn’t. Tell me, how do you think they’d react if I tried to quit?”

Grian winced slightly at the memory. “Is it better to live like this?”

Cub frowned, furrowing his brow. “I think—” He paused. “How long has that raven been there?”

Grian turned to see a white bird peering through the front window. “Oh, that thing’s been hanging around for a while,” he said carelessly.

The bird froze abruptly, as though caught in the act of existing, and then proceeded to make a rather poor display of acting natural. If it'd been able to, it likely would have started whistling non-suspiciously.

Grian squinted at the thing, approaching the window cautiously as though to not scare the raven (which now looked like it very much wanted to scram, in addition to its poor attempt at acting like it hadn't been eavesdropping).

“Has it been there the whole time?” he murmured, raising an eyebrow.

“Yep,” Cub said under his breath. “Hopefully it’s watching you and not me. I’m not legally here right now.”

Grian rolled his eyes and opened the window, not much caring if he hit the bird by accident. “Don’t you have better things to do? Carrion to go eat? Urchins to harass?” he snapped at the bird, attempting to shoo it off the ledge.

The raven squawked back disdainfully, practically dancing on its feet to avoid getting hit by the window  _ and  _ his shooing hands for a good few seconds before fluffing up indignantly, glaring at Grian and flying off without a word.

Cub edged closer to the window, trying to stay out of view of any passersby, watching the raven as it flew. “Hope that thing didn’t hear anything important.”

Grian shrugged. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

Cub gave him a sideways glance. “What are you, some sort of foreshadowing machine?”

“God, I hope not,” Grian said. “Otherwise the world is in a lot more trouble than it already is.”

Cub smiled then, a genuine one that didn’t seem forced or like it was painted on a mask. “You know, you’re a pretty good chap, Grian.”

“Not something I ever thought I’d hear out of a Vex’s mouth,” Grian said, grinning slightly. “Now get out of my house before I invite Kannon over.”

Cub hurriedly tipped his hat and showed himself out.

“Quit your job, Cub!” Grian called after him, and closed the door to the sound of Cub’s muffled laughter.

\---

It had been a few weeks since the Vexation raid on the small flat on Moloch Street and the feeling in Grian’s neck was slowly returning. He’d done his best to put the whole affair out of his mind and focus on his work—except for Cub’s face when he realized he’d been beaten. He  _ never  _ wanted to forget that. 

And then there was a knock at the door. Three sharp raps. Grian’s stomach dropped. He slowly put down the pen he was writing with, wanting to do anything but go answer the door. He was sure by now that Ed intentionally waited until Mumbo was out of the house to visit; it was increasingly less likely coincidence considering this had now happened three times in a row.

“Hullo, Ed,” he said, cementing his features with a distantly pleasant smile as he opened the door. “How’d I do on your assignment?”

“No small talk today, then.” Ed smiled thinly; Grian could have  _ sworn _ his facial expression was a bit more warm than usual. Maybe that was just wishful thinking on his part. “Quite well, actually. I hope I haven’t caused any inconvenience by not immediately following up, but you seem to have needed some recovery time and I had… other matters to attend to.”

“Have we ever done small talk?” Grian asked wryly. “I’m glad to hear I did well, though. Turns out my governess was wrong when she said being a nuisance would never pay off. And the timing doesn’t matter, as long as I’m paid I’m happy.” He glanced a bit hopefully at Ed’s pockets, trying to be covert and failing. “So what has my trouble merited?”

Ed’s smile widened just slightly as he opened his freehand, spinning a small and glinting object around one finger briefly—a keyring? “The… _ particulars _ of what happened a few weeks ago, well, I would be lying if I said I expected quite that much trouble to come your way. Kannon and I had a talk. You need a safehouse, given what I’ve now learned of your usual methods.”

The first thought that ran through Grian’s head was  _ oh, sweet! A safehouse! _ The second was  _ oh, no, I have to do this  _ _ again? _ Still, he was not one to turn down that sort of offer. “So that’s my payment? Access to a safehouse?” Not bad, all things considered, but that wasn’t going to pay rent, especially because he was sure Ed wouldn’t be happy if he immediately turned around and sold the location to Crawcase Cryptics.

Ed tossed the key to Grian, who barely caught it before it hit the floor. “It’s a unique sort of arrangement. Nobody should bother you there, and that key will work as long as I’m not using the laboratory. If you’re the scientific type, you’re welcome to any materials there that aren’t in lockup.”

Grian brightened a little at that. “I dabble,” he said, with what was maybe a bit too much pride given that ‘dabble’ was more or less code for ‘I have exploded my sitting-room before.’ “Thanks, truly. This could be invaluable to me if I actually ever use it.” He was actually genuinely thankful, and despite their little back-and-forth game of who knows more, he was grateful to Ed.

Well, at least before he remembered that he’d gotten  _ severely  _ injured on this escapade and cooled down back to his previous attitude, trying to pull back a little. Being grateful to Ed for an extended period of time might be dangerous - and while he was probably being a little overly guarded on this particular matter, wasn’t that how things worked in London?

As if on cue, that damned calculating glint in Ed’s eyes intensified. Apparently, despite his attempt at making himself harder to read, the man had caught on once more, and they were back in that loop of ‘he knows that I know that he knows’ again.

“Of course, a safehouse won’t pay your rent. It might do to check your sitting-room table again.”

Grian almost cursed aloud, just managing to bite back the words. “I’ll—I’ll go do that now,” he managed to say. “Thanks again. For the key. And whatever payment is  _ already on my table in my home— _ ” He cut himself off to compose himself. “Tell Kannon thanks for me next time you see him, too.” He gave Ed a pained smile in a facsimile of friendliness. “See you around?”

Ed’s grin was somehow both eerily sharp and genuinely friendly. “At some point. Take care, Grian.”

Grian gave Ed a nod and shut the door before he saw Ed turn to leave, leaning against it and letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. 

Sure enough, there was indeed something on the table in the sitting room. Even though it was piled with books and other papers, it was hard to miss the crisp envelope perched on top of the mess.

Inside were secrets. Terrible, burning secrets that made Grian’s eyes grow wide as saucers when he read them. These would  _ definitely  _ pay rent. And then some.

“Well,” he said aloud to himself. “That could have gone a lot worse.”

**Author's Note:**

> HI SOLAR HERE. I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS IS DONE. no idea how long this note will be here before zain sees it but it's been a fucking BLAST writing this with them and getting to sit in on their writing process - they have this fantastic way with character dialogue that clicks so well with the nature of Fallen London being just kinda Like That. i really hope y'all like reading this as much as i loved writing it. be gay do minecraft leave kudos if you enjoyed this and a review if you want to yell
> 
> oh also if you know your yogs-adjacent lore there's character foreshadowing so look forward to that :D


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